To Funk and Die in LA

by Nelson George

  "I'm not sure," he said sagely. "Mi madre says he estúpido. Says it all the time."

  "Does she?" Ride asked from the sofa, suddenly worried.

  "No," Emilio said with a giggle. "I always fool him."

  "I'm sure you do," D said.

  The 225 was parked down the block from where Ride was staying, not far from the Korean spa his grandfather took him to years ago. Though the area was technically Koreatown, the blocks in this part of the neighborhood were overwhelmingly Latino. So it was weird to see a black woman leaning against the car, especially the black Rousey.

  "You've already beat the shit out him."

  "He okay?"

  "Nope."

  "You like Korean barbecue, D Hunter?"

  "And you are . . . ?"

  "My name is Serene Powers."

  Serene ordered all the food at Chosun Galbee, getting the combo steak and shrimp for them to share, as well as a beer for herself and a Korean tea for D. They were quite a sight among the Korean families and couples surrounding them. He was a large black man wearing all black; she was wearing a beige hoodie and boots, tight jeans, and a black T-shirt with the image of a scowling Ice Cube.

  "So," D began, "you must be ex-military."

  "Maybe."

  "I bet I could look you up on a mixed martial arts website and get your whole bio."

  "So why not do that now? If that's all you want to know, just pull out your phone."

  "I won't find out why you are following me on Google."

  "Why do you think, Hunter?"

  "To beat Ride's ass wouldn't be my first guess."

  "That was a bonus."

  "Do you know the whole story of those two?"

  "Unless Eva bled his ass dry and bashed his mother's head in with a hammer, I don't need to. Did she do any of that or did she just leave his ass?"

  "She left him. But also took money that wasn't hers."

  "Emotional violence is not my concern, Hunter. If she's not Hannibal Lector, I don't care. Putting his hands on her was, is, and always will be unacceptable to me."

  "You could have kept on following me," D said. "There's a lot of technology for that. So what do you want?"

  "I thought we should meet. I read up on your family after I saw you and Dr. Funk on YouTube. Any man who cries that openly is all right with me. Plus, based on what happened to your brothers, I know you earned those tears."

  "Now I get it. So this is about Dr. Funk?"

  "How much do you know about him?"

  "I know his music. I know he's a legend."

  "His music lies," Serene declared.

  "I've been around musicians and artists long enough to know that their work is the best part of them. So I don't judge their character based on creativity. But you saw that video—if he's done bad shit, I'm sure it hurts his soul."

  "Kelly Lee Minter."

  "Who?"

  "Kelly Lee Minter. Use your phone, Hunter. Then call me."

  "I have your number?"

  "I'll text you, Hunter. Enjoy the food." She put a fifty on the table and walked out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  OLD MEN PLAYING DOMINOES

  D was back on his grandfather's sofa. He was reading the LA Times Calendar section, enjoying holding the print edition that his grandfather had continued to subscribe to. It had been awhile since he'd held an actual paper and it felt weird, like he was living life out of sync. Still, he found it comforting to read the newspaper after spending the morning on a deep Internet dive.

  He hadn't found much online about Kelly Lee Minter, but she seemed like a real music fan who had even published a Dr. Funk fanzine. Her funeral in Richmond, California, was notable for the presence of a lot of Bay Area musicians. There was one testimonial from a childhood friend about how sweet and "musically inclined" she was. Judging from a couple of pictures, Kelly Lee Minter had been a cute, sandy-haired Creole girl with some baby fat, buckteeth, and a taste for Spandex. She was definitely Dr. Funk–affiliated, but none of the items gave a cause of her death.

  Unlike most of the women in the Unified Women's Mixed Martial Arts rankings, Serene Powers didn't have a nickname. But in the featherweight division she had ten wins and five losses and, according to one MMA site, "had the tools to be a contender but perhaps not the dedication," since she'd become less active the last two years. "When Serene fights it's clear she's got the power(s) to wear a champion's belt. But perhaps because it comes too easy for her, Serene has become an erratic presence on the circuit, popping up at odd tournaments after long absences, flashing skills but sometimes seeming distracted. She's a mystery inside an enigma."

  One profile of Serene reported that she'd served with the United States Army in the Middle East and later taught English and physical education at an all-girls academy in the Bay Area. There was also mention of a boyfriend who, apparently, was a chef of some sort. So there was a Bay Area connection between Kelly Lee Minter and Serene Powers. Maybe she knew the family, though she seemed to be in business and not simply out for revenge. She'd taken Ride down and hadn't sweated a beat. She clearly knew some nasty tricks. Hope it doesn't come to me having to take her one-on-one, D thought.

  Walli walked into the living room and placed his laptop on the coffee table. "I got something to show you."

  "More memes making fun of me?"

  "Nawn. Grandpa and Dr. Funk."

  D put the paper down and glanced over at the computer. "What?"

  "Awhile ago Grandpa asked me to get a VHS tape digitized. I just got it done the other day. I'm sorry it took me so long."

  "Lemme see."

  On Walli's computer screen, Big Danny, looking to be in his late sixties, sat across a card table from Dr. Funk, who looked much healthier than he had at the wake. They were playing dominoes in a dark room. The camera seemed to be on a tripod and was as static as the two men were animated.

  "There's film out there," Dr. Funk said. "Shit, I got VHS tapes somewhere with all of Jackie's TV appearances. The man was bad. I mean, everyone talks 'bout Michael Jackson being influenced by James Brown. That's not even half the truth. You see, Michael Jackson came out of Jackie Wilson, from his posture onstage, to his leg movements, to his spins. It's not even a question."

  "You gonna rely on a damn VHS to prove that to people?" Big Danny probed.

  "I've got it in here somewhere."

  "Nigger," Big Danny said, "you must know that people don't even remember what a VHS or a VCR is. You might as well bring out a Betamax."

  "I got those too," Dr. Funk said.

  "You are missing my point."

  "Mine is that people need to honor Jackie Wilson."

  "Mine," Big Danny said, "is that you sounding old and silly."

  "You know about Jackie Wilson. Don't act like you don't know about Jackie Wilson." Dr. Funk had a bit of a twang in his voice, a Memphis-meets-Oakland blend that crept through in his singing, but was also present in his speaking voice.

  "Wilson was great. I mean, you didn't even talk about his voice. Man, he could soar like a bird. I'm with you on that. But a VHS? You can't prove anything with a VHS."

  "I got a VHS player."

  "A VCR, you mean?"

  "A VHS player. In fact, I got two of them bad boys. Right up in here somewhere," Dr. Funk said. "Shit, I used to give them out as gifts. I'll give them one of 'em. So whenever I need to explain about Jackie Wilson, I can just pop my VHS in, and—bam—there he goes in a shining sharkskin suit and his process and Jackie doing a sideways split like his heels had ball bearings in them."

  "That's a nice description there, Doc," Big Danny said, "but nobody is interested in a goddamn VCR. That thing isn't even a museum piece. A museum might want a Motorola Hi-Fi. A museum might even want an eight-track player. But a VHS, a VCR? C'mon with that. Ain't no one want a Datsun. And a VHS is a Datsun. Nigger, you better get some CDs or get gone."

  "Jackie Wilson is one of the reasons I do music," Dr. Funk said, ignoring Big Danny's logic. "The man's bee
n lost. James Brown this and James Brown that. On any given night Jackie Wilson would loosen his tie, open up his shirt, and then, like those punk rockers, dive right into an audience. Right into the arms of some chubby gal. Let me tell you what Jackie Wilson taught me. Jackie Wilson said it to me backstage when I was a kid and playing my guitar for anyone who would listen. He said, Look at Jimmy Ruffin. Look at the mistake he makes every show."

  "Jimmy was from Detroit too?"

  "Yeah."

  "Had a couple of hits."

  "Yeah. People don't know Jimmy Ruffin now, and this is probably why. So at the second show of the day, I watch Jimmy Ruffin. He's got a little something onstage—but he's no Jackie Wilson. So I watch the show, then go back to see Jackie. I say, I don't see no mistake. Jackie Wilson says to me, Jimmy only sings to the pretty girls. I say, That don't sound like a mistake to me. Jackie Wilson laughs and says, Watch me. So I watch him and he's doing his thing. He's doing ‘Baby Work Out.' Dancing his ass off. And then I see it. He's at the edge of the stage and these women are screaming. They're pulling his sharkskin suit off. They're ripping at his creamy white shirt. The man's clothing bill must have been crazy. But I see it. I see it."

  "What did you see?"

  "Jackie Wilson is singing to the homeliest, most unattractive woman on 125th Street. I mean, he is laser-beaming his eyes into her and that woman is ecstatic, like the Lord has just anointed her. I mean, this sister is shaking."

  Big Danny was not impressed. "Making an ugly woman come is genius? Ain't that a singer's job?"

  "After the show Jackie Wilson quizzed me. Did I see? I told him that by singing to the homely girl he made every other not-so-fine woman in the room think, Damn, I have a chance with Jackie Wilson. And the fine girls? They respect that too. They know they fine. They know they have a shot at Jackie but they love that he's so generous with his affection. Then Jackie Wilson says, See, Marv Johnson only sings to the fine women. Singing to fine women only gets you so far. The homely women feel excluded and the fine women resent that she ain't the fine woman he's singing to. Anybody here really remember Marv Johnson?" Now Dr. Funk got excited. "And that's my motherfucking point, Danny. There was a science to what and how Jackie Wilson did what he did. Cause and effect. It was scientific. I got it. Jackie understood and taught me this stage shit was one plus one."

  "Well, you know what? I think Jackie Wilson may have cursed you and anyone else he told all that to."

  "Curse? Nigger, it's that kind of knowledge that helped make me millions. I mean, I didn't hold onto the damn money, but at least I made it."

  "You see all that love, man? Sexy shit is a curse," Big Danny said. "God gives you a certain power. A spiritual kind of power. But it can be dangerous to your soul too. You know I'm right, Doc. You use that power to get into a woman's panties. But the power is about more than sex. There's a price to pay for shortchanging that gift."

  D had forgotten that Big Danny had a lot of preacher in him. He believed deeply in God and no matter how late he was up on Saturday night, on Sunday morning he always made it to church.

  "Danny, you pussy-hound," Dr. Funk said with a laugh. "When did you get so damn holy?"

  "Look at it. Just look at it. All these one-name singers: Jackie, Sam, Marvin, Teddy. Look at Al. These young singers. D'Angelo. Maxwell. Miguel. That fool who hit fine-ass Rihanna upside the head."

  "Chris Brown," Dr. Funk said. "He a silly kid. But then he also got two names."

  "Cursed. Every last one. Your man Jackie Wilson died of a stroke onstage. Probably singing to some old lady. Sam Cooke: shot in a motel office without his pants on. Teddy P. paralyzed in an accident with a questionable individual. Michael Jackson: enough said there. D'Angelo made a naked video and the hellhounds chased him down to Virginia. And you, Doc. I found you wandering around LA like the ancient mariner. You ever think it's a curse for misusing your power?"

  "Better blessed for a minute than never blessed at all."

  "You know who was truly blessed? Mr. James Brown."

  "Of course," Dr. Funk said. "That's news?"

  "The difference," Big Danny went on, "is that Jackie made a couple of good records. Only a couple. James made a million great records. Jackie was really brilliant onstage. Maybe he was as good as James Brown. Maybe he really was Michael Jackson's true model. I could see that. But a good show is like a deep breath. You take it in, it fills your lungs, and it goes out. On to the next one. Jackie Wilson was a good, deep breath. Really fills your lungs. Keeps your ass alive. But he didn't endure. He was just a way to get to the next breath. But what if that breath was recorded? What if that breath wasn't just a breath, but a sound? A sound that's distinctive. A sound that's more than just a voice or a performance, but both? Well, that's immortality."

  "If Jackie Wilson had signed with Motown, we wouldn't be having this discussion. He would have been as big as Michael or the Temps or Marvin."

  "But he didn't," Danny noted. "James Brown could perform all right. But he had a band. He had a sound. They had what we call a brand and James Brown owned it. He owned himself as much as any black man could back when we were just feeling good about being black."

  "African American," Dr. Funk said.

  "What?"

  "African American. You missed that memo." He was being petty because he knew Big Danny had him.

  Big Danny said, "I'm black. You black. I ain't been to Africa. My wife took me to an Ethiopian restaurant. Made me eat with my hands. I don't even use chopsticks, so why would I eat with my hands? At least with chopsticks you can stab the shit that looks questionable."

  They both laughed at that. Dr. Funk poured Big Danny a taste from a bottle of whiskey and the debate resumed.

  "You wanna know what really irritates me about James Brown?" Dr. Funk asked. "The man became a crackhead when he was what, fifty or something? How you become a crackhead at fifty? That don't make a damn bit of sense. I did coke when I was in my twenties and thirties. That's when doing coke made sense."

  "C'mon," Big Danny said, "give the man some grace. When he was James Brown with capital letters, when he was the hardest-working man in show business, when he was soul brother number one, that man was as clean as the board of health. He didn't get all cracked out until he was on the downside. Once a performer realizes he's no longer the Godfather of Soul, well, crack's gonna happen.

  "James Brown was his own thing," Big Danny continued. "He was never a love man. Not a true one. Too sweaty to compete with Jackie Wilson or that pimp Sam Cooke. Sam Cooke. He was the anti–James Brown. He was so handsome all he had to do was stand there, open his mouth, and the women would fall right out. You know what's shame, Doc? Only British artists understand that now. That fine-ass Sade in them tight-ass dresses. Got a narrow-ass range and a fine-ass frame."

  "That big white girl Adele. Don't move a muscle. Guess she's worried about jiggling. But she can sang. And that's the whole thing right there—"

  The tape ended.

  "That's it?" D asked.

  "That's what he gave me," Walli said.

  "Are there other tapes?"

  "No. Sorry. I looked all over after he died. This was the only one."

  "Okay," D said, "let's watch it again."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  D AND NIGHT GO TO FUNKMOSPHERE

  It was good to be out rolling with Night with Big Danny's top down under the Los Angeles moon. It had been awhile since the two old friends had hung out. Moreover, it was even better that they weren't heading to Soho House or the Nice Guy or that whole Hollywood scene D had never warmed up to. Instead they were on their way to a club called the Virgil, where a local label called Stones Throw was hosting a party.

  D didn't know much about the label but Night did. "Yo, Stones Throw put out J Dilla's Donuts."

  "Classic material right there."

  "Madlib is down with them. MF Doom did the Madvillain LP with them. Aloe Blacc was originally on Stones Throw. And that white boy Mayer Hawthorne, though he can't reall
y blow, has made some dope records for them."

  "So it's an old-school indie label."

  "A new-school indie label," Night corrected. "They put out a lot of vinyl—even do cassettes. It's owned by a DJ named Peanut Butter Wolf. He's spinning tonight."

  "Who's the party for tonight?"

  "New music from Dâm-Funk."

  "I heard of him. He did some tracks with Snoop. My little cousin is into him."

  "7 Days of Funk. Some underground shit. But I liked it. You know, I've been in a rut but so much is going on out in LA creatively. You got Kamasi Washington, Terrace Martin, Thundercat, and so many other dope musicians."

  "They're in Kendrick Lamar's camp?"

  "Yeah," Night said, "I need to plug into that energy."

  D was happy to hear Night talk music like this. Self-awareness was a rare and great thing in an artist. He knew he needed to open up his process and let in some fresh air.

  "So this is a networking opportunity?"

  "Maybe, Mr. Manager," Night said. "Worse comes to worst, we meet LA hotties."

  The Virgil was out in Silver Lake, a part of the city D had never spent much time in. Despite it being an LP release party, the vibe was more neighborhood hang than showbiz spectacle. This wasn't Hollywood—this was LA, home of break-dancing Filipinos, skateboarding Chicanos, bohemian blacks, and cool-ass white folks who rarely ventured past Highland at night.

  Night and D walked through the two sides of the Virgil, enjoying the spirit of the community in the house and feeling a bit like tourists anxious to pick up on the local customs. The place wasn't packed but it was full. Dâm-Funk was playing keys and singing, backed by just a drummer and bassist playing a modern funk, a style inspired by Prince, electroboogie, and eighties groups like One Way. D recalled it was a style Dr. Funk had been flirting with just before he faded into obscurity.

  Somebody from Stones Throw spotted them and soon Night and D were sitting at a corner table with Madlib and PB Wolf, talking music and having drinks. That's when D noticed a familiar face in the crowd. It was that Korean real estate woman from the day of the funeral, looking cute in black-and-white Chucks, skinny jeans, and a purple-and-black, on-and-off-the-shoulder Prince T-shirt, chatting with an Asian man and woman. D wasn't going to say anything to her until he saw her dance. Whoa, she's got a lot going on back there.